


this attempt of remembering

by chartreuser



Series: the slow rebuilding [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 17:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5834920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuser/pseuds/chartreuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lift of the helmet and Finn is loose—but there are other things to get rid of, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this attempt of remembering

**Author's Note:**

> i love finn, like a lot, a LOT I LOVE HIM SO MUCH.

Eight-Seven is nineteen when something crackles in the air, as if the signal of a faulty blaster. He’s not sure when it happens, because he’s never got a good grasp of time; everything he’s gone—going—will go through is mapped out neatly for him to know, like a designation. He could be sixteen, could be eighteen, could be twenty-two. He doesn’t keep count of his age, doesn’t keep it in his mind, until someone asks for it, and it becomes necessary information. That’s just how life works; it is this way for every stormtrooper before him and every one that comes after. The First Order knows what they’re doing.

There’s just one slight problem: why couldn’t they have achieved total success, every time? Why does the First Order keep on losing?

\--

Eight-Seven grows older, but the question persists. He’s not quite sure what he should do about it. He does what he’s told and makes sure he does it well, well enough that Captain Phasma—approves. In her own way, with that shiny helmet. Finn and his class do well enough to get by.

\--

This resentment doesn’t make sense; Eight-Seven has always been in the top one percent. People who perform the best are supposed to be the most loyal towards the First Order, aren’t they?

\--

Aren’t they?

\--

“It is not our place to question things,” Nines tells him when he voices the problem out loud, finally, “unnecessary.”

Eight-Seven looks towards him. He can’t see his expression with the helmet on, but Eight-Seven tries to imagine, sometimes, how it would feel to be more familiar with a face rather than a voice. It feels surreal, because at some stage, this is all he will know – but there’s something distant about it. It doesn’t _feel_ right, which is a familiar feeling that has accompanied him everywhere; _this_ isn’t anything new, but the suspicion has only been growing and growing and Eight-Seven would have to deal with the fact that he would never see anyone’s face for any longer than what’s necessary. He knows that this is for good reason.

Especially when he thinks about Slip, because he’s looking at Nines and Zeroes and he’s not quite sure if he’d want to know how every single emotion would play across their faces, or what they’ll look like when they weren’t sleeping or eating or washing up, or how they respond to Eight-Seven’s commands. It’s no secret that they don’t like taking orders from him, but he supposes that what one feels doesn’t matter, not in the First Order.

Helmets fed them important data, anyway, information that was extremely helpful in every sort of terrain, that helped you complete the mission objective—

But did all of that really matter? Was keeping stormtroopers at the top of their game this important, when they were all so disposable, anyway?

\--

Slip keeps on lagging behind—and Finn is never entirely sure of what he’s supposed to do, if he should help him or let the sympathy lie low. Nines and Zeroes lose their patience by the day, and Slip, poor Slip, tries to catch up in any way he can. Eight-Seven flounders between helping him and minding himself; they’re telling him that he has potential, that he shouldn’t be spending so much time helping someone that can’t even help himself.

“Thank you,” Slip tells him one night, when the rest of them are asleep and there’s no possibility of anyone overhearing, and. It feels strange, to feel the weight of gratitude resting heavy in his ears.

“You’re welcome,” says Eight-Seven, not entirely sure if he means it. He’s pretty sure he does.

\--

Eight-Seven remains the way he is— _full of potential_ —and doesn’t remember to leave Slip behind. He tries hard enough to ensure that Slip completes all the objectives he’s given, and not enough to arouse any suspicion that’s strong enough to get him reconditioned.

Everything’s okay, he thinks, if he slips through the cracks, keeps his head down, stays where he is. Maybe he’ll be able to keep on covering for Slip this way. If there was anything similar to friendship that Eight-Seven has experienced, he thinks that this could be it. But he wouldn’t know.

\--

“You don’t think you’ll get into trouble?”

Eight-Seven tells him the truth, “I don’t know. Maybe I will.”

Even in the dim light, Slip is pale, a strong contrast to Eight-Seven’s own dark brown skin. He’d wondered what it’d be like to see anything like this regularly enough. If it was worth it to go without everything that this helmet has given him—and what has it given him, exactly? The lack of a name? The lack of a face? Or was it the lack of everything else?

\--

What happens if something could be wrong with you?

\--

“I hope it’s soon,” Slip says, when they're talking about their potential deployment, and their helmets are off, “I really hope it’s soon.”

Nines says, “don’t hope it’s too soon,” and drains his glass. Eight-Seven bites his lip, continues eating his food. Nines is staring hard at Slip now, with his eyes narrowed. “Way you’re going, your first deployment might be your last.”

Eight-Seven speaks, he doesn’t know if he can take this much longer: “hey. He’s one of us. We’re in this together.”

Nines and Zeroes look visibly displeased. “I’d rather it be just the three of us.”

Eight-Seven doesn’t say anything, because he’s not supposed to. Slip doesn’t do so much as look at him, and that’s probably when it all started, if you’re asking Eight-Seven.

\--

There’s something about simulations to Eight-Seven: though it might be because it was easier like this, to actually exercise what Captain Phasma had told him—to leave Slip alone because he didn’t need that help. Not for long. It didn’t grate on Eight-Seven, the way Slip had turned colder towards him, thinking that Eight-Seven was doing this for the praise. Which, frankly, he had no interest in—it was only words on his competency and his skill and his efficiency and nothing of actual substance—nothing that actually mattered. In any sense.  

\--

There’s a sparring session, and Eight-Seven goes easy on Slip, as he always does. He didn’t want to, wanted to lose to him, but Slip wasn’t in any condition to take any more hits, was probably heavily injured in some way, so Eight-Seven pushes him to the floor as gently as he could manage.

There’s not an ounce of appreciation, but Eight-Seven doesn’t take it to heart.

Captain Phasma notices; Eight-Seven isn’t surprised. She would have caught onto him at one point or another.

\--

Captain Phasma deploys his fire-team—and Eight-Seven does as he’s told. Follows orders, moves from transport to orbit with six other trainee squads, all of them equipped with blasters loaded with live ammunition. Eight-Seven stares into the space in front of him and wonders if all those years of his life were worth it, for the First Order to spend their resources on, just to complete one mission objective. But it must have been; the First Order has nothing but people and it was people that constructed the entirety of the First Order. What was a few years of conditioning a person’s life, compared to the bigger scale?

Nines asks, “this is for real—” as if they were raised to do anything else, and Eight-Seven stays quiet. As he’s always done, but Slip asks what they’re doing, if Captain Phasma has told him anything about the mission, and he tells him no, because he doesn’t know anything, only has the faintest inkling that they are here because he had gone to display some sense of empathy, again, whatever that meant, and maybe they’re going to die but no one can tell him anything for sure. Barely knows anything about himself as it is.

\--

“No nickname,” says the experienced stormtrooper, “you’re one of those.”

Eight-Seven asks, “one of those what?”

The stormtrooper laughs, but there’s something angry about that laughter, and he wonders if he’ll end up like this too, one day, if he makes it through alive at all. If they haven’t sent him in for conditioning, if his mind wouldn’t be frayed at the edges by the time they’re done with him. What would they make of him then? Would he still have any potential, or would they have wiped that away, too?

“An outsider, cadet,” comes the reply, and something resentful churns in Eight-Seven’s stomach, “you’re on the outside, and you’ll always be looking in and wondering why you don’t belong.”

Everyone else laughs, including Slip. Eight-Seven shuts up, and stays where he’s put.

\--

Phasma orders, “kill them,” but Eight-Seven doesn’t. Couldn’t pull down on that trigger even though that was the only step, even though this was instinct to him by now, couldn’t, because he saw the Abednedo and his fear and thought of Slip, staggering. Told himself that it was a mercy but still wasn’t able to do any of it in the end, because they were—they were going to kill him anyway, and Eight-Seven knew how to do a clean shot, knew how to make it quick and nearly painless. _This is going to be my first kill_ , he’s thinking, until it isn’t. Slip shot him down.

Slip, the same Slip that was quick to lag behind, who’d laughed at him too, who Eight-Seven tried to help but couldn’t always. The very same.

\--

There _was_ something wrong with him, if he couldn’t pull the trigger in every simulation that needed him to shoot a civilian down. Eight-Seven had told himself that it was required of him in order to fulfill the mission objective. The only thing he managed to do, in the end, was look at their fake images and think of Slip, who wouldn’t have any trouble with the very same thing he struggles with. Slip, breaking plates and glasses left and right, stocking everything wrongly, who didn’t do anything right, unafraid to shoot a civilian down.

 _This is how it is,_ Eight-Seven thinks, feeling like Captain Phasma is watching him, which she probably is, _this is how things are going to be._

\--

Slip dies.

\--

FN-2187 takes the pilot with him, and runs.

\--

The pilot is— _different_ , with his dirty hands and matted hair, and Eight-Seven pulls off his helmet again because he’s not going to stay here, anyway, the First Order has no place for him; Captain Phasma has seen what he’s incapable of and there’s no point in keeping anyone who’s inefficient alive. They’re either going to send him back to sanitation, or they’re going to recondition him, and Eight-Seven doesn’t know what is worse, so he hatches an idea in his head. He’s good at missions, has never failed to complete a mission objective, and he doesn’t see why he couldn’t do all of this alone, not when he was in charge of everything before— _before_ —

“I can fly anything,” comes as a relief, Eight-Seven’s shoulders loosen. The helmet feels new, now, despite having worn that for most of his life; the weight feels foreign and bulky on his frame, every part of his uniform feels— _wrong_.

\--

“Nice to meet you, Finn,” says Poe Dameron, and Eight-Seven—Finn—laughs.

\--

He loses Poe, gains a jacket. It’s weird, looting from a dead man, it feels uncomfortable, but there’s no body and what if he isn’t dead? What if he _did_ make it?

\--

Finn has never felt this before, but he knows it’s dehydration. His mouth is dry, his head hurts, and he thinks that he’s about to fall over, but he follows the girl anyway, and runs for his life. The droid that electrocuted him doesn’t hurt him again, and he can still feel the remnants of the electricity, the sizzling burn. It’s still better than reconditioning.

\--

Everything rushes by in a haze of adrenaline. Kylo Ren slashes his back, and Finn doesn’t care too much about that. Rey’s going to make it, even if he doesn’t, she’s a force of a girl; she’ll stand back up. Finn wouldn’t even mind dying, as long as he didn’t have that helmet on. He’s falling towards the snow and he’s thinking about Poe, about Rey, about Han and Chewie and General Organa. If he’d meant anything to these people at all, if the ones still alive by the end of the day will ever mourn.

He thinks that they probably will; not for long, but there’s going to be some sadness, in the least, they seem like nice people, the Resistance is supposed to be the complete opposite of the First Order—

—but Finn doesn’t know. It’s fine, though. He’s not angry.

\--

Finn actually wakes up—isn’t that funny?

\--

Poe says, “Rey is gone,” and somehow Finn doesn’t find that surprising, just accepts it. People come and go; if there was anything of value he’d learned at the First Order, it was this, the same lesson that he couldn’t make sense of, didn’t want to. It’s tiring to think of life outside of what he's known, at this point, with the lack of the strictness the First Order had applied to their every person and there’s no—no _designation_ , now, Finn can do what he wants, but he doesn’t even know what it is, what does he—what does he _want_?

“I hope she’s safe,” Finn says, after a momentary pause, and Poe’s just looking at him like he’s found something good, like Finn had dragged him out of captivity again and imprinted on Poe once more. Their hands are interlaced, because Finn supposes that Poe’s heard from Rey of how he’d clutched at her hand in a fit of desperation, like it could make anything better in that instant. And in this one—Finn’s not hesitant to admit it; the contact does make it easier to breathe, and so he squeezes back.

Poe says, “she’s searching for Luke Skywalker, right now,” and Finn’s not surprised. That girl was always meant to be something. Someone important; someone that needed to be kept safe.

“What about you,” Finn asks. “What do you have to do?”

Poe shrugs. “Nothing—guess there’s just me and you now, buddy.”

“Okay,” Finn says, with a half-grin. “Hope I don’t bore you too much.”

Poe reaches downwards to adjust the pillow Finn’s head is propped up on, careful not to jostle his spine. “Don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“Poe—”

“I’m not hearing it, Finn,” Poe says, his eyebrows furrowing and his face unbelievably close to Finn’s, so much that Finn could just tug him in and—

Finn’s back nearly rips him into two, and there’s a shout that comes after, which makes Finn realise that his voice is incredibly hoarse, which is to be expected, and he thinks about all the resources that the Resistance had spent on keeping him functional, and what he has to do to earn it. He’s not sure what, and it’s a bit worrying, really, but it’s alright, he’ll have the chance to prove himself, he could request for Poe to help him, and—and—and—

“Breathe, buddy,” says Poe, who’s clutching onto Finn's shoulders like he’s halfway drowning, “breathe for me.”

\--

Poe comes into his room every single day and brings him new hobbies to try out. He says that he’s used to all of the waiting, that recovery needed patience more than anything, that he’d stay here permanently to keep him company if he could, but the medical droids would certainly be very cross with that, and we don’t want that now, do we?

Finn shakes his head, and reads all the books Poe lugs into his room. He knits Poe a scarf in return, and tries to learn binary with BB-8. He doesn’t think about all the moments in between, when his back ails him and he has to bite down on that pain because the droids would only give him more bacta when he didn’t need any of it. Finn’s not thinking about his lack of a purpose, the lack of a necessity for him to be about; he wouldn’t mind working sanitation again if it meant giving him something to _do_ , really, because there’s nothing in store for him right now.

Finn doesn’t think he can stand it, knowing that there’s not really a reason he’s here at all. Poe tells him that he’s a hero.

If this is what heroes are, Finn thinks, taking up space and never contributing anything, then he’d really rather not be one at all.

\--

The thing is: Finn knows that FN-2187 always had the potential to become greater in the First Order; that word had never left his mind because they’d made sure that he remembered it, that this sentence would be buried in the back of his brain in case he ever defected, which he _has_ , and now he can’t stop thinking about this, thinking about how easy it would be to go back and how much he would hate it, how much of him they would wipe.

Finn doesn’t have that potential anymore. Not in the Resistance. He wonders what he has to do to gain that back.

\--

Staying confined to a bed has always felt better with a person beside you, for all Poe manages to piss of the medical droids that Finn had worked so hard to gain the approval of. Finn is someone foreign; you’d think that Poe Dameron would be more cautious of him all the more, but he warms up to him instead, bringing him gossip and chatter and BB-8 almost every day. When Poe doesn’t, Finn lies down in his bed and takes his time doing nothing, just revelling in being someone that didn’t have anything to do, and being fearful of it at the same time.

He can’t understand it, the luxury of choosing what you wanted to do and setting out to _do_ it, without getting permission from any form of authority. He’d tried to ask the medical droids, once, but they’d just stared at him blankly, and Finn had given up trying, at that point. He’s just not supposed to be in the Resistance; this place shrugs the efficiency out of him and keeps all that dirt in his shoes, on his hands. Finn’s not exactly sure who he’s supposed to _be_ , if he's honest.

Because—he understands that there are some parts of the First Order still-remaining in him. That he has to kill off all that in order to be accepted in here, that they were his very fingerprints but he can’t have them anymore, now he has to be _Finn_. But what if Finn only consisted of the memories the First Order had given him? That same person too afraid to pull the trigger, or a kind substitute for a coward, or a traitor, or a number?

He’d lived his entire life as a serial code—this is all he knows.

\--

“You’re quiet,” Poe says, one day, when BB-8 is powered down and he’s run out of everything to tell Finn about, “are you… happy?”

“Happy?” says Finn, and Poe narrows his eyebrows at him, but his eyes soften. Poe is quick, sharp turns of an X-wing in the air, but he liquefies, on the ground, whenever Finn sees him out of his ship—which is pretty much all the time, lately. His hands are restless on his thigh. They keep tapping onto whatever surface they could find, bed, trousers, arms—it means, Finn understands, now, that Poe’s hesitant on something.

“Yeah,” Poe says, finally, as if this was such a difficult question to ask, “are you?”

Finn wriggles his toes, and pulls back the blankets to place his feet onto the ground. It feels good to be walking again, which he’s been working on, with the droids—and Poe makes room for him. He always does.

“I don’t know,” Finn answers, truthfully, and takes Poe’s outstretched hand as he tries to stand. Poe’s arm immediately goes around his waist, and Finn leans into the touch, allows himself a little selfishness. “I suppose I should be.”

\--

Finn gets out of the medbay, and Poe takes up the responsibility of showing him _everything_ , which Finn gladly agrees to. He drags him across the hangar, shows him all the conference rooms, makes sure that he knows the entire base inside out, despite the fact that they’re going to shift the entire thing to another planet, at some point.

It is all long, tiring walks and rapid breaks in between, when Finn’s legs hurt from walking too much. There’s a chill to the air, at this time, but Poe’s jacket is warm around his shoulders and Finn doesn’t mind the soreness in his back too much.

“Do you want a break,” Poe asks, when they’re both somewhere near the mess hall and Finn’s wincing from all the excessive moment, “are you tired? Is your back okay?”

Finn tries his hardest to not let it on, but Poe has always been an astute observer, and now that Slip is gone—is probably the person that knows him the most, by now, since he’s spent so much more time with Poe rather than Rey. It’s easy to forget that. Finn wants to think that he’s made entirely out of sunshine—but some days there’s no brightness to him at all, and it’s obvious that Poe hides it well, and it worries him, a little, that he’s obviously not sleeping as soundly as he should be.

Neither has Finn, really. They both have their fair share of nightmares, Finn thinks. They just don’t talk about it; it never comes up.

“I’m okay,” Finn lies, when he finally remembers that he owes Poe an answer, “I’m good.”

“Alright,” Poe says, and leans back against the wall, in the middle of the hallway. He doesn’t call Finn out on the lie, but it’s obvious what Poe is thinking. Emotions surface on his face as easily as it does on Finn’s, he realises.

They stand shoulder to shoulder, and lean on one side of the hallway, staying there for what seems like hours. Poe seems to enjoy it. Finn doesn’t even mind.

\--

When Finn is finally released from the medbay—Poe requests for Finn to share the same room as him. No one even bats an eye.

\--

The next few days pass by in a blur—there’s so much food that Finn’s tried, so much music he’s listened to, so many things he’s watched—that he’s not sure if he remembers any of what has actually happened. Is only conscious of Poe’s hand intertwined with his, leading him to all these corners lurking in the base, ready for him to drag Finn towards, excitement curling up at the edges of his lips. Finn’s found the steepness of this learning curve to be more than a bit addictive;

he loves it. Loves that Poe is giddy with the notion of showing him so many things. Is assured, because at least one person in the Resistance would want him around, that doesn’t think Finn would defect back to the First Order with the first chance he’s got. Poe has—treated him with nothing but kindness. Finn thinks they could be considered good friends, now, actually.

“What do you want to try next,” Poe asks, feet dangling off his bed, when they’re pretending that the only reason they’re not sleeping is because they want to talk to each other, “what are you interested in?”

 “Anything,” says Finn. “Anything you want.”

\--

Neither of them sleep well.

\--

Sometimes—only sometimes—Finn has trouble feeling. Has trouble experiencing what the First Order would call empathy; he doesn’t know what’s made him defect but it’s sure as hell not this.

It’s not trying to drag himself out of bed or attempting to force himself back to unconsciousness by sheer force of will alone. He’s so fucking tired but he can’t sleep, everything runs cold and hot at the same time and it feels like a fever, to Finn. That everything he hated, hates now—is the only thing familiar to him and he hasn’t. Hasn’t fallen in love with the Resistance yet, still feeling the urge to flee to another system, because he don’t think he could handle this, would rather die for something else rather than a war.

\--

In the morning, Poe floods him with a barrage of questions, and Finn spaces out.

Poe’s legs curl up underneath him as he sits on the floor by Finn’s bed, hands waving animatedly—Poe loves talking with his limbs; will gesture every single thought he’s trying to convey as if words aren’t enough as they are. Finn watches him with a kind of silence that he’s grown used to, now that he knows that Poe doesn’t mind if he doesn’t get any signal that Finn’s listening, that he likes filling up the quiet in between the both of them with whatever’s on his mind. Finn likes it, too. 

Except: he can’t fucking sleep and sometimes he forgets how to respond. Doesn’t know how people even act like outside the First Order, that he’s tried his best to appear as normal as possible but it doesn’t quite work out, he’s just not cut out to be this kind of person. But Poe is. Poe is somewhat well-adjusted, brave enough not to dwell on this many things and. Gorgeous, apparently.

“—we could always,” Poe says, slightly distracted when BB-8 rolls up to him, beeping in binary. “Yes, yes! We could visit, of course we can, if Finn—”

And Finn doesn’t know where all of this is coming from, or when he’d remembered that this wasn’t something that he had to agree to, anymore: this wasn’t a command or an imperative and Captain Phasma and FN-2187’s _potential_ is nowhere to be seen.

“No,” Finn says, resolute, and Poe’s head snaps up, his hand halting mid-air. He doesn’t look offended, just. Shocked, and Finn almost doesn’t go through with trying it, “…can I say no?”

Poe stares at him for a bit, with his eyes filled with something like pride, and something else, like he’s—sad?

“Of course, Finn,” Poe says, gently. “Why couldn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Finn tells him. “I don’t; I think I didn’t know how.”

“You can say that as many times as you want, now,” Poe says, the distance between them shortening, with Poe climbing up to wrap his arms around Finn, his head resting on Finn’s shoulder. It happens quick, but it feels oddly normal, as if there was nothing sudden about all of this, and Finn almost feels strange for. Wanting physical contact, really, even though he’s aware that all of this is alright. “You can reject me however you want.”

Poe exhales deeply, and Finn feels the strength of Poe’s grip on him, and allows his fingers to curl harder into Poe’s back. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Okay,” Finn says, and doesn’t even bother to avoid crying.

\--

Poe takes him—everywhere else. It overwhelms Finn a little, but all of it is nothing to compared to the kind of excited nervousness that springs up on Poe’s face as he awaits an answer, to see if Finn likes all of this as much as he does. Finn hopes that his reactions wouldn’t disappoint, but judging by the light on Poe’s face—they don’t.

“Great,” Poe would say, nodding as he ran a hand through his hair, “I guess that’s one off the list.”

“List,” Finn repeats, arching an eyebrow as he follows both Poe and BB-8 on their heels, “you have a list?”

“Of course I do,” Poe mutters, waving a hand at every other person who passes by, “how else am I going to remember the things I have to show you?”

“You don’t have to,” Finn argues, because Poe has done this for several days in a row now, you’d think that he had other things that were more important, he’s a commander after all. Except his face falls, slightly, eyes lowering in— _disappointment_?

“Maybe I don’t,” Poe says, pressing a hand into his arm, the pads of his fingers digging in. His grip is strong enough that there’ll be an imprint there for the next few hours, but Finn doesn’t mind the pain. Poe treats everyone this way, he thinks, quick and passionate and quick to reason, entirely unlike Finn, who doesn’t have that same kind of fire in him. “—but. Maybe I want to?”

“Oh,” Finn says, eloquently. Poe’s jacket is a warm pressure around his shoulders, and Finn feels a grin lighting up his face. He really can’t remember the last time he’d ever smiled this hard.

\--

The list of things to do tapers off—and they spend their days melting into the heat of the sun, the earth beneath their backs, and Finn’s injuries not hurting as much as they used to. Finn thinks: this is what Poe looks like when he’s not up in the air, when there’s no energy pulsing through his arms, his shoulders. He’s so free nowadays that Finn can always rely on him to be available later on in the afternoon, after they’re done with lazing in bed and Poe’s finished with his latest models. Finn doesn’t ask Poe about where all that time is coming from. He’s not too sure how to react if the answers all come up relating to him.

“You know—” Poe says, breaking the silence, “you don’t _have_ to use Finn for a name. I know that—it was rushed, and all, and maybe you feel some obligation—”

Finn raises his head, tilts in the direction of where Poe’s sitting. He looks beautiful, even in the darkness of the room, adjusting BB-8’s controls, in between his legs. “No,” he says, decisive. “I’m going to use it.”

“Okay,” Poe says, carefully, his eyes softening. The laughter lines around them make him look older and younger, all at once. Finn wants to trace them with his fingers, to press his palms to the stubble on Poe's face. Finn knows that he’s wanting a bit too much. It’s alright if he doesn’t get any of that. “Whatever you want, buddy.”

\--

There’s always the thought of Kylo Ren curling around the frame of his mind. Lightsaber against his neck and white bursts of pain leaking into his senses, burning into his back, into his shoulders. It’s there when he stares at the ceiling in the middle of the night, or at the scars still clinging onto Poe, not-yet faded, or the disfigured patch of skin on his back. Finn doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

Then there are the nightmares—and how Finn always wakes up feeling cold. Shivering even though the weather’s been hot all week, or how Poe always tries to keep the room as warm as possible, considerate for his back. He'll lie there in shock for a good while, feeling the bitterness of his throbbing scar and pretending like he’s not crying. That he wasn’t that scared of Kylo Ren staring at him in the face back on Jakku, or from closed lids, like his brains weren’t turning into sand.

\--

He thinks about Rey, and how she’s lost in another system, finding Luke Skywalker. Somehow the thought doesn’t bother him as much as Poe had imagined.

“I miss her too, buddy,” says Poe, dark circles heavy under his eyes. They’re looking towards the hangar—Finn has found out that General Organa has granted him a few weeks’ leave—and Poe inclines his head, shifts his gaze to the side. He misses the air, Finn knows, misses the weightlessness and the adrenaline and the excitement. He’s always looking to the sky, to the other ships launching and staring wistfully. Drives him mad, being grounded for so long.

Finn wants to understand. Is this who Poe Dameron is? Is this passion native to him, or was it present in everyone else, that they would find the energy to heal from wounds, let the scars fade?

“You think she’s safe, out there?” Finn says, even though he’s not really looking for an answer. Just assurance. Sometimes it’s all he needs, and Finn doesn’t let himself linger on what that means. How he’s always needing something, missing something, feeling a phantom limb somewhere in his head. It’s distress. Finn’s felt it before, but. Never for so long.

“Yes,” says Poe. “She’s a capable girl. Rey knows how to fight, she's smart, she's force-sensitive. Holds her own against Kylo Ren—no cause for concern, I'd think.”

Finn turns his head, and feels the grass crunch beneath his skin. It tickles his back. A reminder of what he is now, without the uniform, without the helmet. You couldn’t feel all that with your gear on.

“She’s strong,” Finn says, and finally dares to make eye contact with Poe, just a few short inches away. “Sometimes I think she’ll outlast us all.”

“Well,” Poe says, “that’s plausible. What with the force and all.” Poe shifts closer, raises his head, props himself up with one elbow firm on the ground. He looks like he wants to ask something.

Finn exhales, doesn’t look away. “What is it?”

Poe clears his throat, and bites his lips for a fraction of a second. Finn can see the specks in his eyes with the proximity they have. “Do you… have feelings for her?”

Finn scrunches up his eyebrows; why wouldn’t he? He asks, “romantically?”

Poe shrugs. “Yeah. Yeah, romantically, that’s what I’m asking.”

“She’s attractive,” Finn says, knowing that what he wanted was just one pull away, “but no. Too far out of my league.”

Poe hums. “Is she?”

“I’d think so,” Finn says, looking towards the curve of his cheek, the stubble that he’d ignored in the morning. “Girl’s amazing.”

Poe smiles, and there’s his hand beside Finn’s head, supporting him as he shifts even closer. Finn can smell his cologne like this—he smells it all the time, but it never gets old, always makes him more alert, more perceptive to Poe, to whatever he’s doing. He feels like he’s stealing away private moments of Poe’s life, really, with how much time Finn has spent watching him.

Finn’s not ashamed of it. He’ll tell Poe when he asks; he’ll tell him everything. The only matter is _when_.

Poe takes a sharp breath in through his nose, and Finn wonders what he’s going to say. “You’re amazing too, y’know. Don’t discount yourself there, buddy.”

Finn holds his gaze. “Thanks,” he says, but the word doesn’t taste real on his tongue. Has the softness of a lie.

\--

The hobbies Finn picks up aren’t exactly familiar to him, per se, but he’s known enough in his First Order days to know what they are. Poe teaches him the rest of it, praises him excessively (in Finn’s opinion), and gets excited over every single thing that Finn has managed to accomplish.

He’s starting to think that Poe has cabin fever.

“Buddy,” Poe’ll say, eyes lighting up whenever he’s finished arranging flowers or knitting scarves or playing an instrument, “I’m not fucking with you, you _are_ good at whatever you put your mind to. Tell him, BB-8.”

The droid will do something like whir. Finn has no idea what that’s supposed to mean.

“It’s like the time that we, uh. Escaped, you know?”

“Oh,” Finn says, fishing for the memory even though he dreams of it every night, “when we. When I broke you out.”

“Yeah,” Poe says, his demeanour dimming a little. The sounds outside their room seem to quiet; Finn thinks that there’s a conference that General Organa is holding. Even BB-8 is silent now, everything is the roaring in his ears and his heartbeat going quick, or the sweat forming on his brow. Finn hates it; hates that his supposed bravery during those few short hours has managed to evaporate on him once he’s woken up. They keep on congratulating him for it, about how he's managed to defect—and not actually stand his ground.  _I didn't plan on helping_ , he'd wanted to tell them.  _I was thinking about running away._

Finn takes a moment, but he speaks, anyway; Poe's waiting for an answer: “what about it?”

Poe takes his hand. Finn tries to focus on it, wills away the dull panic that’s starting to rise from the bottom of his stomach. “You were brilliant, you know?” Poe’s grip on his hand tightens. “And you were never trained to be a gunner, all that you knew was how to use a blaster, and you managed to get in so many hits. You’re the only reason why we’re alive now, Finn.”

Finn blinks, incredulous. “You flew the plane.”

“Two-man effort.” Poe waves his argument away, rubbing his thumb on the back of Finn’s hand—and Finn’s thankful for that support right now, for the physical intimacy. He thinks he’s never been luckier to have known Poe, to even have him as—a friend.

Finn unclenches his jaw, somehow. “I was scared, Poe.”

Poe tightens his grip on Finn. It could be painful, but Finn wouldn’t know, Poe’s forehead is leaning against his and there’s nothing that’s coming to his mind now other than snow, heat, dehydration, Kylo Ren.

“So was I,” Poe says, visibly swallowing. It looks like it hurts him, too, getting the words out. Finn doesn’t know whether he’s relieved to not be alone, or worried that Poe’s going through this grief with him. “But we’re here, now. Didn’t we make it, Finn?”

\--

Finn thinks they didn’t, when he’s trying to sleep at night.

He can hear Poe shifting as quietly as possible, thinking that he’s asleep, already, but Finn has long grown used to keeping rock-still, two people in a room was an unthinkable luxury in the First Order. He knew how to stay quiet—and he does that, now, as he watches Poe from the corner of his eyes, slipping out of the bed to sit by the window—sometimes Finn forgets that he's a commander; that there are more things to Poe than—all of this. There's still so much he hasn't seen. He always looks exhausted, these days, with the war firmly etched onto his skin in a multitude of different places, even though they’re mostly faded, now. 

They're still there. Finn can list them off the top of his head, the scars on his ankles, the slash at the side of his shoulders, the burn marks that are almost invisible on his thigh. Finn has scars like that, too.

“Can’t sleep, too, buddy?” Poe says, suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. It shocks Finn a little.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. Finn decides to get out of bed and join him. “It’s been days since you’ve last slept properly, Poe.”

Poe shrugs, glancing back at Finn. He can tell that Poe’s craving a cigarette now, with the purse of his lips. “Been that way for you, too.”

“I guess not,” Finn laughs, sharply. “I thought you didn’t know.”

There’s a quirk of the lips, the dejected sigh that comes soon after. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Which is—interesting, to say the least; Finn had always assumed that he was doing a decent job of keeping this from Poe. “You could’ve said something, if you wanted to.”

“I didn’t think that it was my place,” comes as an explanation.

Fair enough, Finn thinks. He’s not exactly sure what anyone should say, at this point. He tries his best anyway. “You’re welcome to tell me anything. I want to know what you think. Not just the bits where you think I want to hear.”

“Okay,” Poe says, a slight smile tugging at his lips, “I think you undermine yourself too much.”

“Do I,” Finn says, and reaches for Poe’s hand.

“You do,” Poe says, and reaches back.

\--

“You know you can tell me anything, right,” Poe says one the next day, with a towel around his waist, skin still glistening from the shower. “You don’t have to keep things from me.”

Finn does his best to avert his gaze—it’s not appropriate to think what he’s thinking, in this context. “I know.”

Poe exhales deeply, standing a distance away from Finn’s bed, where he’s lying down, trying to absorb new information that he needs about the Resistance. “Good,” Poe says, clearing his throat. “Just so you do.”

\--

The days follow into weeks, and by this time months could have passed, but Finn wouldn’t know, he’s not keeping track. All his days are leisurely, now, occupied with learning how to communicate with BB-8, or reading about other planets, and it’s so vacant that it… irks Finn, a little, how there’s nothing similar to a schedule in his life, now.

The thing is—he’s also thankful for it.

“When the war is over,” Poe says, like such a thing could happen, like they’ll both outlive it in the first place, “I’ll take you to Yavin 4.”

Poe’s home. Where he came from.

“Where my parents settled down,” Poe says, as if Finn hasn’t already committed everything Poe’s told him into memory, testing the edges of what an identity felt like, “I think you’ll like it, maybe.”

Finn humours him. “I’m sure I would,” he says, putting down his holopad to shift closer to Poe. He likes the proximity, Finn’s realised, prefers talking to people when they’re close enough for him to touch. “I heard it’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Poe sighs, his eyes shining when he snaps back into focus, onto Finn. “I’ll take you there, someday. I promise.”

“Okay,” Finn grins, and they both ignore the sound of several ships launching off the hangar, choose to maintain eye contact instead. “I’ll hold you to that.”

\--

Kylo Ren comes back to him, one night. With his helmet back on and his lightsaber slicing through blasters, slicing through gear, slicing through bodies. He’s so fucking scared that he can barely feel his hands, now, his back stinging from the snow. There’s Ren, rifling through his brain again, picking out the weaknesses to spit them back into his face.

_Where is all the bravery you had before, FN-2187? Where is it all now?_

The force is shaking him by the shoulders—or that could just be himself. He can feel the winter in his bones, the snow settling down into the crevices of his back. The tears have already dried out from his face. FN-2187 feels— **disgusting**.

“You weren’t supposed to get out,” Ren tells him, lightsaber an inch away from his throat. “You had so much potential, FN-2187.”

FN-2187 screams when the lightsaber flares closer to his back. It’s always harrowing to know that you’re not going to make it. That you could have tried your best to run but the First Order would always pull you back; they took everything that you had once, anyway, why not anything you might’ve gained while you were away?

“Could’ve become a general. Could’ve been so much better, if you had the patience to wait. What did you choose to do, instead?” Ren spits in his face, and Eight-Seven—can’t really do anything, he’s too frozen to move. There’s ice in his head and he’s losing consciousness with every other limb, from skin to skin. “The right thing? Was that what you did? The only thing you managed to do was run—”

\--

“FN-2187,” someone shouts, and he jerks awake, standing into position.

He steadies himself, ignores how his entire body is drenched from perspiration. The First Order needs him, he knows, Captain Phasma—

“Sir—” Eight-Seven starts to speak, but he doesn’t think he’s seen this person before, it’s not Captain Phasma, and it’s not General Hux either, and certainly not his commanding officer—“oh.”

Eight-Seven—or Finn, as he is now, inhales deeply, forces his shoulders to relax. “Poe,” he says, feeling the tension in his entire body slide free. “You’re Poe.”

Poe runs a hand through his hair, and presses the other to his eyes. “I am,” he says, voice shaky, and even with how well he knows him now—Eight-Seven doesn’t know if it’s anger, or sadness that’s leaking through, choking Poe up. “And you’re Finn. Remember?”

“Yeah,” he says, carefully. “I remember.”

\--

They sit side by side against the window, not saying much. The room is stifling hot—which Finn is grateful for—but it can’t be comfortable for Poe, who’s been quiet for hours now. Finn feels strangely at peace like this, hand clutching tightly onto Poe’s, who keeps on pressing light kisses to his knuckles every few minutes. It calms him immensely, really, to the point where he can just about shake off the lingering probes of Kylo Ren in his mind.

It’s enough.

\--

“You know,” Poe says, nervously, a few hours later, “I’d need to. Go for a recon mission, today.”

Finn nods. This one action was more exhausting than he’d thought it would be. He doesn’t say anything like _don’t fucking go, what if you die, what if Kylo Ren has you again, who’s going to break you out this time,_ or _you’re going to leave, but are you going to come back_ —but instead says: “okay.”

“I’ll be back. On the same day, if things go well.” _If._ “Just thought you needed to know, and—you were asleep, when I came back from the conference. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you any sooner.”

Finn nods his head. He can accept this. This is acceptable. “That’s alright. You go shoot the bad guys up,” he says, and forces out a smile. It doesn’t seem to work, judging by Poe’s expression.

“I will,” Poe promises, no longer trembling in anger like he was before. This calms Finn down, somewhat, settles the panic that was aching somewhere in his ribcage.

“Bring back some souvenirs,” Finn tries, somewhat lamely—but Poe doesn’t seem to register those few words.

“Wait for me,” Poe smiles, and presses another kiss to Finn’s knuckles, their hands still intertwined.

\--

Against Finn’s better judgement—he doesn’t watch Poe’s ship launch. Half a day, he tells himself. Poe has BB-8 with him. Nothing will happen.

\--

Something _could_ have happened. Three days pass instead of half of one. Finn stays in their room and lies on top of Poe’s bedsheets.

General Organa comes to talk to him, once, but he honestly doesn’t remember how the conversation goes. Only recalls time closing down on him.

\--

Poe comes back—and Finn is one of the first on that hangar, feeling the wind brush past the gashes on his back. He’s only wearing a thin shirt underneath Poe’s jacket—or his jacket now, he supposes, and it’s far too little for this time of the night, but the relief warms him from the inside out, so it doesn’t really matter.

“Finn,” Poe says, streaked with dirt and mud and grime, looking like the most beautiful thing Finn has ever set his eyes on, “I’m back.”

“Good,” Finn says, incredibly proud of how his voice isn’t wavering, still firm, “you promised.”

Poe nods, and he looks breathless, with his face underneath Finn’s hand, hot to the touch. “I did,” he agrees.

Finn breathes, and there may be tears forming in his eyes but that’s alright, he’s not the only one. “I waited.”

\--

“Do you want to talk about it,” Poe asks, after he’s completed all his duties, attended all the briefings, when they’re finally alone.

“I don’t know,” Finn says, opting for the truth.

Poe hesitates. “What about—that nightmare? It’s fine, if you want to keep that to yourself.”

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” Finn says. “I don’t know if I have much to say at all.”

\--

Finn makes up his mind, in the end.

If Poe thinks that this would help him, then it’s worth a try, if not for himself than at least for Poe. Except: it’s not something he wants to tell Poe about, that he can’t reconcile who he was before and what he is now, if they’re even the same person at all. What do you do when you have no identity to begin with? What happens when you try to make someone out of nothing?

“What’s wrong, buddy,” Poe asks, noticing the shift in his mood—because of course he would, even when he’s probably exhausted after the mission. Poe’s always—selfless. Finn thinks that he’ll never even begin to be anybody like that. “Are you—is your back okay?”

Finn blinks, and tries to come up with a new response. There were—words that he’d wanted to say, but he’s not sure if they’re adequate in the end, because. What if he fucks this up? What if Poe gets tired of waiting for him?

“Buddy,” Poe says, and Finn does the foolish thing, looking away. “What’s wrong?”

Finn shakes his head. Stays foolish. Stays silent.

Poe doesn’t press him.

\--

Half an hour pass. Finn gets the courage to say the words that he’d come up with in the first place.

“It feels like I’ll never be a part of the Resistance,” Finn says, voice down to a whisper. “That all I’ll ever do is look at the lot of you and know why I’ll never belong.”

Poe looks at him—properly looks at him. Reaches out—and Finn’s hand finds his. Out of reflex, more than anything. For comfort. For warmth.

Finn continues, “I think I had a friend, once. Someone that they tried to recondition, because he was always lagging behind, and. I tried to help him, but I couldn’t, and I didn’t, not always. He’s dead now, on Jakku.”

Poe’s breath hitches—and Finn knows that he was the one that killed Slip—but it doesn’t feel like something that he’s lived through. Couldn’t find the courage to mourn, even. But General Organa had said it would come. That there was a time for grief and another for—something else. Acceptance, perhaps.

“He thanked me, once,” Finn says, clearing his throat and trying to find as much solace in the pressure of Poe’s fingers, “but that didn’t last. He laughed at me—with everyone else—for never slotting in, but he’s dead now, I suppose, along with everyone else. I don’t know what to feel about that.”

Poe presses his free hand against Finn’s face, eyes lowering. “I’m sorry,” he says, breath warming up Finn’s neck. His hand settles easy on Poe’s waist. Being like this makes Finn feel—vulnerable, in some sense, but he doesn’t mind it, not when it’s Poe.

“I’m sorry, Finn,” Poe says again, and looks towards him. “I killed him.”

Finn nods. “I know.”

“You did?” Poe’s eyes widen in surprise, and he reels back a bit, though not enough to loosen Finn’s hold on him, “you didn’t hate me, for this?”

Finn laughs, bitter. “We were on strict orders to shoot you, Poe,” he says, clutching the thin fabric of Poe’s shirt. “What were you supposed to do? Die for someone who tried to kill you?”

Poe looks away. “Maybe. What if it was you?”

“Probably wouldn’t have shot you,” Finn confesses, “I couldn’t shoot anyone. I was too weak to do that, I think.”

Poe’s about to start—but Finn fixes him a look, and he quiets down. “It could’ve been me. Wasn’t, in the end, and even if I had joined the Resistance earlier—you would have killed him, either way. He’s another stormtrooper,” Finn says, “We’re made to die, Poe. We’re made for you to kill us.”

There are tears running down the side of his face, and Poe wipes them away. Finn can feel the callouses on his fingers, the freshly-bandaged wound. It makes him feel— _real_.

 “I’m sorry,” Poe says, after a few minutes of them sitting together in silence, with Poe wiping off the wetness off Finn’s face, unbearably tender. “I’m sorry that you had to go through all that.”

Finn blinks. “If we start apologising for things that were out of our control, we’d be here all day.”

“I suppose so,” Poe says, sighing. “We’re a mess, aren’t we.”

“Pretty sure I’m the mess,” Finn says.

Poe’s eyes narrow. They’re moving closer to each other, steadily, and Finn doesn’t dare to hope—so he doesn’t. “Undermining yourself, again?”

Finn rolls his eyes. 

“Buddy,” Poe says, thumb caressing his jaw, “thanks for telling me this.”

Finn smiles. It’s not entirely real, but he’s working on it. He’ll get there someday.

“No problem. Thanks for listening.”

\--

“Finn,” Poe says, a few hours later, “we should try and get you acquainted. Not with the place, you know what I mean? But the people. That’s where the heart of the Resistance really is, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Finn says, inclining his head to meet Poe’s gaze. “I’m up for it.”

Surprisingly: he means it.

\--

Poe introduces him to everyone, quite literally. It’s all a bit overbearing, but it’s sweet at the same time, how he charms the socks off of everyone but the General. Which is to be expected of course.

“Glad to see you healthy again,” she says, shaking his hand when they meet, “it’s good to have you back with us.”

“Thank you,” Finn says, oddly touched, because they both know that it’s not his back that they’re talking about. “I’m glad, too.”

General Organa turns her head to purse her lips at Poe. “You take care of him,” she says, and this could be the first time that he’s seen her be so gentle, other than the time that she’s assured him that the Resistance will do everything in their power to help him save Rey. “We need him around.”

Poe grins. “I need him the most, ma’am,” and doesn’t comment on how fiercely Finn is blushing. “He’ll be around for a long, long time.”

\--

Because everything falls into place, eventually: Rey unites with Luke Skywalker and establishes communication with the Resistance, albeit brief. She’s training with him, now, and honing her abilities with the Force, or something, Finn’s not sure, doesn’t know how it works. But once they’ve managed to connect: Rey sends a message through.

It’s short, but somehow she still manages to ask after Finn.

\--

Slowly: Finn gets out of their room more—and starts bothering to learn everyone else’s names. Doesn’t hole himself up alone as often anymore, and rediscovers the feeling of wanting to get back into the sun, for a change.

He starts afresh. It’s not the same as rediscovering home, or learning who he actually is: but Finn would take this, too. Feels happier just for allowing himself this luxury.

“You’re meeting Leia later to discuss your position in the Resistance, right,” asks Poe one day, his eyes gleaming and the pilot’s uniform back on his body, unbelievably handsome, “I hope you’re gonna get what you want. You excited?

“Yeah,” Finn says, patting BB-8’s head absently as he looks back at Poe, recalling a time where all of this would have been quite impossible, “I’m going to ask her about the few options I’m thinking of.”

“Great,” Poe nods, a hand on his shoulder, bottom lip between his teeth, “I’m happy for you.”

Finn smiles, and opens his arms for a hug. Poe returns the embrace so tight that Finn has trouble breathing, but it’s okay. Everything’s okay.

\--

“I think I love you,” Finn admits one night, when the both of them have shut their eyes for hours and sleep still hasn’t come. “In a—romantic way.”

“Thank the stars,” Poe blurts out, so hurried that it startles out a laugh from Finn. “Would’ve been awkward if I were the only one.”

“You’re not,” Finn smiles, in relief, “you haven’t been for like, ages.”

There’s some shuffling from Poe’s end, but when Finn cracks open his eyes to check on what’s going on, he’s hovering over his bed with his own pillow in his hands. “Any room for me,” Poe asks, so hopeful that Finn thinks that he may be melting, just a bit, because how could Poe not have known?

“As much room as you want,” Finn grins, and Poe returns it so bright that it shocks him, almost, with how beautiful he is even in the dim light.

“What if I want the entire thing.”

He shrugs. “Then you get the entire thing,” Finn says, vaguely, and reaches forwards to pull him down.

\--

They wake up with their limbs entangled. They’re not holding hands but Finn doesn’t mind, because Poe’s a warm weight on his chest and he can stare as much as he wants. It doesn’t feel like he’s stealing Poe’s private moments away now, not anymore. Feels like he’s appreciating them for what they are, instead.

\--

“We knew it,” says one half of the base. The other half is just… confused.

One of them asks: “weren’t the two of you together? Before?”

Finn’s at a loss, but Poe takes over for him; the fucker always knows what to say, somehow, it’s like he has the Force or something. “I guess we were,” he says, hand reaching out to Finn’s, “just not romantically.”

They raise an eyebrow. “So this is… new?”

Finn nods, gives them his biggest grin. “Twelve hours old, actually.”

Poe laughs, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Finn’s cheek, “but a much longer time in the making.”

\--

Poe goes on with his piloting duties, and Finn helps the General plan out strategies, becomes someone that’s—useful, in the least. It’s more than he could ask for.

“You’re not tired?” Poe asks, his stubble scratching at Finn’s bare chest, “I think that my brain would explode, doing that much thinking.”

Finn runs a hand through Poe’s hair, locks his fingers with Poe with the other. “And not from all that danger you insist on throwing yourself into?”

Poe hums.

“It’s different when someone you love is down on the ground,” he says, softly. “Makes you more desperate to win a war.”

\--

“Yavin 4,” Finn says, thinking of all those nights before. “If we win this war. Yavin 4. You said you’d take me there.”

Poe props himself up on his elbows, looks him in the eye. Finn is always floored by all the sincerity he finds there; how unafraid Poe always is to. To what, exactly? To— _feel_?

“There,” Poe nods, leaning in to rest his forehead against Finn’s, “and everywhere else.”

\--

The heat gets hotter—and Finn wakes up one day, aching to complain about it. There’s incoming data that he needs to analyse with General Organa, as soon as Poe comes back in the next few hours and delivers the intel they need to get plan the next battle out. It could be nothing solid—but the comms are down, and they’ll only know what to do when Poe arrives, so all they can do is wait. Finn would’ve been uncomfortable, before, with not knowing what would happen next, but he’s different now, sees everything a bit more clearly; they’re fighting a war. Finn is determined to win it.

“Black Leader is back,” someone says, and Finn follows them out to the hangar, where the X-Wing is landing and Poe is emerging from it, with BB-8 by his side.

“Buddy,” Poe says, his helmet still on as he rushes towards him, patches of oil sticking onto his uniform and reeking of sweat, with newer scars, fresher wounds, “I’m back.”

“I waited, Poe Dameron,” Finn reaches out for his hand, presses a kiss to Poe’s knuckles. “I waited for you.”

“I hope you always do,” Poe says, solemnly, yanking off his helmet to pull Finn in for a quick, but messy kiss. “Right up to Yavin 4.”

\--

Poe asks, “are you happy?”

Finn thinks about it for a moment—about how the nightmares are still present, or how Kylo Ren’s influence never really shakes the both of them away, or how he dreams of Slip and his blood-stained fingers, sometimes, trying to hold onto Finn’s helmet, or every other stormtrooper laughing at him for never being able to fit in, or the static in the air when he was sixteen, eighteen, twenty-two. He’s fighting for a war that they’re going to win.

Two and One and Eight and Seven—Finn doesn’t answer to numbers anymore.

He has Poe, and he has the Resistance. Rey is safe with Luke Skywalker. Things can get worse, but for now they’ll stay good: and it’s enough.

“I’m happy,” Finn decides, and means it.

\--

He falls asleep—and Finn dreams of a tree in the midst of a jungle, with nothing white for miles around.


End file.
